I went in and sprang to my father's arms--my own clasped together round
his neck--looking eagerly in his face.

Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of
yesterday--so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had
shed many tears.

"My little Laura--my darling," he said, "I have something to tell
you--something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night."

"Oh, not to her!" I cried, in an agony of tears; "not to her!"

"Mamma is living," he said, and I broke from his arms. I flung myself in
an agony of grief on the ground. Those words, "Mamma is living," seemed
to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear--

"Mamma is dead."

Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then.

"Laura," said my father, gravely, "you must try and control yourself.
You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible"--and here his
voice quivered--"it is just possible that you might be useful to your
mother."

That was enough. I stood erect to show him how brave I could be.

Then he took me in his arms.